Caught Up
by hum-hum-humbug
Summary: As his first and ultimate act of self-sacrifice, House plans to damage his relationship with Wilson beyond repair, leaving Wilson free to move on. He didn't plan on feeling guilty or trying to undo it. Apparently he's a lot more selfish than he thought.
1. Prologue

**AN:** Welcome to the prologue! This fic is set in season 6. House has moved back into his own apartment and Sam and Wilson are dating.

This is the prologue of a 4-chapter long Hilson-centered fic! The rest is already written and I will upload chapter 1 once it hits four or five reviews. I find them very constructive. Thank you for reading!

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><p>Wilson knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped into the building. For one thing the door to his best friend's apartment is left slightly ajar, an unprecedented occurrence, and for another there is the faint sound of groaning emanating from House's living room. Wilson makes his way down the hallways as slowly as a hunter would advance upon his prey, scared that a sudden movement would spook House but even more afraid of what he might find inside the apartment. Frightening images reel through his mind, images of House writhing on the floor, clutching his leg, unable to stand up. Worse yet he imagines House, on the floor, still in pain but this time with an empty Vicodin bottle beside him, his eyes tinged with yellow. Wilson pause for a moment and leans against the wall, trying to prepare himself for what he will see. <em>At least he's alive<em>, he muses, _he's making noises. _He tries to add the open door to the equation. Did House forget to close it in his pain? Or was it a robbery? Was House groaning on the floor with a bullet wound through his stomach? He has to fight the bile rising in his throat.

He inches closer yet. He knows it's fairly impossible to smell something from so far away but he swears he can detect a faint trace of sweat and whiskey. He knows he should burst into the apartment and save House from whatever it is he is doing to himself but there is a faint mystery in the air that forces him to proceed slowly, gently. By the time reaches the crack of the door, he's holding his breath, preparing for the worst. What he sees when he peers in is almost enough to make him sigh with relief but he does not allow himself the luxury of making noise. It's House, half-naked, on a chair, having sex with a girl. Not that Wilson is particularly happy to have witnessed his best friend in this position but considering the alternative scenarios the present situation makes him happy enough to break into a Fred Astaire number. He averts his gaze quickly, glad that he has _not _burst into the apartment.

_ House got a girl…or a hooker, whatever. They got into it and forgot to close the door. _Wilson wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. _He just forgot that I was gonna come over tonight. That's it. _He is prepared to sneak off quietly and leave House to it. He envisions the huge empty apartment, an omelet and Animal Planet. Sam had the nightshift on Tuesdays which is why Wilson had accepted House's invitation to watch Monster Truck to begin with. There is a small tug at the corner of his heart when he realizes that House has once again managed to make him sick with worry and then leave him alone and miserable for the evening but he shoves these thoughts away. _Just be happy that he's alive. _

He is inching away when he hears the soft moan of the woman. "Oh, Greg."

He knows that voice. He thinks he knows that voice. He had looked away so quickly before…he looks again now, really looks, through the space provided by the open door. House is sitting in the chair that faces the door, as casually as if he is sitting there entertaining guests and the woman who is moving on top of him, facing him, straddling him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she makes love to him has very unmistakable blonde hair. Wilson has to stare at her naked back, her curly hair and her familiar movement for a good minute before he allows himself to accept what was happening. His best friend is having sex with his ex-wife and live-in girlfriend right in front of him.

Everything is very still. Sam was still moving and moaning on top of House but everything in Wilson's world loses audio. He feels his heart against his ribcage but he can't hear it, he can feel the burn of nausea traveling up his throat and knows that he is breathing hard but can't help it. He has to tear them apart or else run far far away but he is rooted, transfixed.

_ Quite surreal, _he observes. And then he sees House note his presence. House's head tilts away from Sam's shoulder, where he has been resting it since Wilson arrived and his eyes looked straight into Wilson's own. They are not shocked or dismayed; they are wild, dark and bloodshot. There is such a look of pained concentration on his face that Wilson has to stop himself from laughing. He did not imagine that anyone could look so morose during sex. The two men regard each other for a minute, an hour, a lifetime before the eternity of silence is broken by Sam.

"Greg," she almost screams his name and kisses the side of his face tenderly, "I'm about to—what are you looking at?"

She follows House's unwavering gaze to the door where Wilson is standing and suddenly everything returns to normal speed.


	2. Chapter 1

**AN:** Dear Readers, welcome to Chapter 1. I know I said I'd wait for feedback before posting but I'm not enough of a review-whore to resist updating after I've edited a particular chapter. I do really need feedback on this chapter though and I can't really edit Chapter 2 without it so please please review! Constructive comments are most welcome, as are simple "Keep writing" comments.

Thank you, thank you for reading.

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><p>"The alcohol James," she is sobbing into his shirt, magically redressed in three seconds, "you know I lose it when I drink…I love you…I…Greg, fuck you, say something!"<p>

If House hears her, he gives no indication, he simply continues to stare into Wilson's eyes, as if trying to memorize his face. Wilson searches for words that would best describe his hatred but the only thing that his body wants to spew out is his lunch. _Do not vomit in front of them. _

Finally his legs are doing what they should have been doing all along. He is running faster than he's ever run before, down the hallway, out the door, down the street.

He can feel his gaze and hear her cries behind him, "James, please…please…"

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><p>House stays stationary for several moments after Wilson has left. It isn't until Sam flings herself onto his chest that he feels the need to speak.<p>

"Get off."

She slides to the floor, still crying. "I never meant to hurt him," she says, keeping her voice even, "I know you didn't either. We couldn't help the attraction—"

"People choose their actions. People can _help it_," he says icily.

"Oh come on," she allows herself a little smile and stands, "I know I started this, I know I pushed for it but you admitted you want this. I love him, I hate that I hurt him but now that it's done…what if we give this a chance?"

"Get out."

"Greg. What? You said you felt…you said it was worth the risk…"

"Get out you awful bitch."

His voice is soft but there is such a menacing quality to it that Sam suddenly wants nothing better than to leave.

"Fine," she says but it reads more as "fuck you".

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><p>Wilson manages to get to the dumpster in the alleyway behind the building before vomiting his guts out. This is fortunate, he notes, simply because the tie he is wearing today is quite expensive. Sam bought it for him. This makes him barf some more. When there is nothing else to throw up, he slumps against the wall, catching his breath. He can't really see, his eyes are completely blurred but he realizes for the first time that it is a very cold night and that he has forgotten his coat in the car. Fuck. Just his luck.<p>

In his peripheral vision he sees a figure approach and he doesn't have to turn his head to know who it is. Wilson does not attempt to stand. House does not attempt to sit. He simply stands a few feet away. They look at the cloudy sky instead of looking at one another.

"I did it for you—"

"Do _not_ talk. Don't you _dare _talk to me."

"Don't be an idiot."

Wilson laughs at that, a cruel, barking laugh. He has to slump against the wall to stand up."It's comforting to know that you can fuck my girlfriend and still call me an idiot. Really. I rejoice in your consistency."

Wilson can feel House roll his eyes and walk closer even though he is resting his forehead on the brick wall to keep from sliding to the ground. "If you just listened—," House starts.

"To what? Listened to what?" It takes Wilson a moment to realize at he is sobbing these words and that the anger is no longer present in his voice. Instead he sounds like a man who has been stabbed several times and left to die in excruciating pain. "To your brilliant justification?" he asks softly between sobs, "to the logical progression that no doubt lies behind your decision to sleep with the woman I love? To your cold, calculated explanation that this doesn't change anything?"

House is silent for a moment, frightened more by the unbearable hurt than by the anger that preceded it.

"No. That's not what I was going to say."

More silence.

"It was planned," House says, "did you notice that the door—"

"That the door was open? That you knew I was coming over? That you planned the whole thing?" Wilson says softly as he tries to calm the heaving sobs. He steals a glance at House. He looks worse than Wilson feels. He is practically slumped on his cane, his face twisted with pain, gaunt and dark. But, Wilson remarks, his shirt is only half buttoned and Sam's pink lipstick lingers on the corner of his mouth.

"Did you get a chance to finish?" Wilson asks conversationally. "I would hate to have ruined your evening."

The only response that elicits is that House puts even more of his weight on the cane, so much so that it trembles, threatening to give out.

"So," Wilson continues, gathering strength from House's silence, "I'm supposed to feel better knowing that you planned this. _You did it for me_. To prove some sort of point, I gather? To prove that people are not to be trusted? That fidelity is overrated? That happiness is overrated? This is all very Housian. Almost predictable. I'm almost disappointed."

Wilson feels a few icy specks fall on his skin. Is it really going to snow? It's cold. The sobs threaten to take over again.

"I'm supposed to feel better about the fact that I feel like there is a knife in my chest," Wilson tries to keep his voice steady, mocking, light, "now that I know you stabbed it into me _intentionally_. Of course. I've been so foolish."

He gets through the sarcastic remark with dignity but the sobs wrack his body as soon as he is done. House dares limp closer. It's snowing now.

House mumbles something.

"What?"

"No."

"What no?"

"That's not why," House croaked, only inches from him now, "I had to save you from her."

"Very noble of you. You're my knight in shining armor."

"She hit on me," House says plainly, "it was a beautiful moment actually."

And the sob that _that _elicits brings Wilson to his knees. He feels, more acutely than he has all night that he has lost the only two people he cares about. They are dead. The snow picks up and Wilson feels a thin blanket beginning to settle on him.

"I was at your place because I'd come to rope you into my misery. To complain about Cuddy," he adds as clarification, "you weren't there but I _did _run into the first Mrs. Wilson and the potential fourth Mrs. Wilson. She was very quick to point out that I am a needy selfish bastard and that I was there to use you. _I _was very quick to point out that she was a shrill harpy who had broken your heart over a decade ago and that she couldn't be trusted."

Wilson can tell that House is trying very hard to keep his breathing steady, to keep the pain from taking over.

"You know what she did then?" House chuckles bitterly, "she kissed me! Maybe mistook the tension to be _sexual _tension? I do have that effect on women."

Wilson isn't sobbing anymore. It's snowing hard. House looks even more miserable covered in snowflakes.

"And I realized," House muses, "as she was kissing me," he adds for the sake of cruelty, "that we were both right about each other, Sam and I. I was the user. She was the cheater. And wouldn't it be funny if I showed you that? Showed you how truly awful we both are?"

Wilson is freezing, shivering, "well, it's not 'haha' funny but there are elements of humor."

He can see, even through the snow, that a very genuine smile flickers briefly across House's face. Then he sees House give up the fight to stand up straight and braces a hand against the wall and chides himself for the instinct to reach out and help him.


	3. Chapter 2

**WARNING: M-rated language, some very dark slightly OOC angst and...well, you'll see. Thanks for reading. Reviews make my day.**

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><p>"I had to do something vile," House explains, "beyond my usual level of vile. Something that would make sure you could never look at either of us again."<p>

"Bravo."

Wilson doesn't need further explanation. This is House's ultimate act of self-sacrifice. He has done something he can't walk back from. This isn't Amber. It isn't an accident. It is a well-planned first-degree murder. House needs Wilson but by making sure that Wilson hates both him and Sam, he is setting him free. He is letting Wilson move on and away without looking back with fondness or regret. Wilson's fingers are numb with the cold. _What if I didn't want to move on? It wasn't your choice to make, you asshole._

"Doesn't explaining the logic behind it negate the tactic?" Wilson muses.

He looks over at House who is either trembling from the cold or from the effort it takes for him to remain standing. One hand is gripping the cane, the other grasping the wall. "I still did it. Why I did it doesn't change the fact that I did it and it's not going to make you hate me or Sam any less.

House is on the ground now, his hair sticking to his face with sweat. He is gasping for air. The snow is brutal now and it starts to cover the ground.

"I didn't just do it to make you hate me though," House pants.

"Oh no?" Wilson sneers.

"She was cheating on you with the head of Radiology at her hospital," House says softly, looking at anything but Wilson, "I could see all the signs, I _knew_ she was when I saw the way she talked to him on the phone that one time but I couldn't prove that she was a cheating...so..."

"You decided to kill two birds with one stone?"

Wilson looks at House who is now groaning with pain on the ground.

"You should go inside," Wilson observes. And then: "Why did you come after me? Why did you want to explain?"

"I don't know," House croaks weakly. His face is resting on his knee, his bad leg is stretched out in front of him and he is kneading it with his hand. Wilson knows that the wetness on House's face is sweat but it almost makes it look like House is crying. It makes Wilson feel better.

"It's because I'm more of a selfish bastard than I realized," House reflects after a few moments. His entire body is quivering now from the cold, "I needed to explain because—"

_I couldn't bear losing you even though I thought I could. Because I'd die without you. Because I'm sorry. Because I should've let your fake-happiness be. Because I love you._

It's all there, he just can't say it. Wilson looks over at him again, sitting maybe a foot away from where he is sitting, and instinctively worries about the fact that House is both shivering and contorting with pain. The snow is covering them both with a sheet of white.

"You should go inside," he says again, more gently. He is surprised to discover that he doesn't want House to die.

House nods but does not move. Partly because he can't and partly because he knows this is the last time he will interact with Wilson and wants to stretch out the moment.

"Do you love her?" Wilson wonders.

"I've never hated anyone more than I hate her." The answer escapes him before he can make it more witty, more funny, more hurtful. Wilson's keeps his expression unreadable but in House's ready answer, he sees the opportunity to hurt him, to punish him.

"Was it the first time?"

"No."

"How many?"

"One other time. That day in your apartment." _In the apartment you bought for us._

"Did she come?"

Silence.

"Did she?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Once."

"Did you come?"

"No."

"Did you fake it?"

"Yes."

House is definitely crying now. There are no tears but his face is contorted in pain and his eyes are scrunched up. Every word that comes out of his mouth is a sob. Wilson revels in his revenge. He is reminded of the infarction because that is the only time he's seen House in this much pain.

"Why didn't you?" His voice is atonal.

He hears a heaving breath. House's face is turned away. The snow is brutal now. He knows he is killing House and he is glad.

"Why didn't you?"

There is no answer. He knows that this is physical torture for House. With every questions his grip on his leg become tighter, his pain more pronounced. He is shivering hard.

"Did you not like it?" Wilson presses, his voice breaking. He is a mortally wounded soldier, beating another into the ground. He is killing House.

"Stop," House is pleading.

"Was she not good or was it just the thought of sleeping with your best friend's girlfriend that was a turn-off?"

"James, stop it."

The first-name use does it. Wilson stops, if only to reflect on the fact that this is the first time House has actually called him by his full first name. House rarely calls him _any _name but when he does it is either Wilson (for emphasis) or Jim or Jimmy (for laughs). The word _James_ out of House's mouth almost makes him feel like a different person, maybe someone who doesn't hate House.

He looks over again. He's never seen anyone look more miserable than House does. House closes his eyes and slackens his hold on his thigh. This scares Wilson more than the groaning and crying.

"You should go inside," he repeats, noting that House's fingers are red from the cold.

"I love you."

It's said so quietly he almost doesn't hear it. The words are a breath that lingers amidst the snowflakes.

"Excuse me?"

With immense effort, House speaks again, "I love you."

Wilson has waited for those words for decades. This is decidedly anticlimactic. Wilson laughs for a good minute.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"Is that supposed to fix everything?"

"No."

"Is that supposed to fix _anything?"_

"I don't know," he is shivering violently.

Wilson's head hurts and his stomach is churning. He looks over at House again and notes for the first time that House's paleness might not have everything to do with the fact that he's in pain. His medical brain is screaming at him: mild to moderate Hypothermia due to recent alcohol consumption by the patient and quickly dropping temperature.

"We should get you inside," he whispers to himself, angry that he has to take care of House when he's supposed to hate him. _Supposed to,_ he notes calmly.

"We," House notices the pronoun usage happily, still shivering violently. Wilson jumps to his feet and pulls House by the shoulder. Doctor brain: patient is exhibiting slow and labored motor functions, diagnosis of moderate hypothermia confirmed.

"Come on House," Wilson urges as he drags House with him, "Hypothermia."

"No," House protests but follows Wilson's lead, "it's not that cold."

"It's 30 degrees and you've been drinking _and _you're wrong about a diagnosis."

"Well, you smell like vomit," House smiles into Wilson's lapels.

"I have you to thank for that," Wilson says with huff.

"Am I dying then? Is that why you're being nice?"

Wilson laughs. "You're the world class diagnostician. You tell me. When is the last time you lost a patient to mild Hypothermia?"

"I think I'm dying," House moans tragically.

"My prognosis is positive."

"Yes but you're an Oncologist, you don't know about real-life medicine," House insists as they make their way to House's apartment, "Boy, you really smell like vomit."

Apparently the foul smell is not enough of a repellant because it does not stop House from pressing himself closer to Wilson.

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><p>"Sit down," Wilson commands when they are inside, slightly worried that the shivering has stopped abruptly. He puts water in the kettle and dumps blankets and a sweatshirt on House. He puts on the sweatshirt and wraps himself in the blankets, clearly irked that he is not being fussed over.<p>

When Wilson emerges from the kitchen with tea and hot-water bottles House is still gripping his thigh but otherwise coherent.

"Are you going to leave?" House asks casually as he places the hot bottles under his arms for heat.

Wilson thinks about this for a second. He hasn't looked over at the chair since they walked in and he knows better than to do so now. Taking care of House distracted him momentarily but the stabbing pain returns to his chest.

"I suppose I should," Wilson says as he sits down next to House. He sees House grin in his peripheral vision.

"You said you loved me when you were delusional with Hypothermia," Wilson reminds him matter-of-factly.

"You mean like three seconds ago? I remember, thank you. I wasn't _that _delusional."

"Huh," Wilson nods.

They sit in silence for a few moments, listening to House slurp his tea.

"Was that a 'please stay' sort of I love you or more of a 'hey man, you're great' I love you?" Wilson asks as if he is merely inquiring about the delicacies of a particular diagnosis.

House returns the answer in the same casual tone. "No, no. That was more of a… 'I'm not sure I can live without you' sort of thing."

"Huh."

House sips some more tea.

"Yup."

It seems like ages ago that he was pounding House with guilt in the alleyway. Everything seems so normal now that Wilson almost wants to turn on the TV and order Thai food and forget that Sam ever existed.

"I could deal with losing her," he admits to the general living room, "it's losing you that really got to me. I didn't expect her to cheat but I found it plausible. _You_ on the other hand…"

This, House cannot treat casually. Wilson feels the full force of House's stare on him, feels him moving closer.

"You're still here," House's tone is pleading.

"I never imagined that you would go that far," Wilson admits in an off-handed way.

"I did."

"I know."

House dares rest a hand on Wilson's arm. He doesn't move away from it.

"Why aren't you out the door?"

"That's exactly what you were aiming for," Wilson says with a small, tired smile, "if I go, the terrorists win," he affects a slight George Bush impersonation.

"I've always admired that you can be funny under duress," House says. Wilson can see the warmth in his eyes.

"You didn't really seem like you were enjoying it that much," Wilson complains, "at least if you were _enjoying it_—"

"That would be worse," House reminds him..

"I suppose."

They sit in more silence. Wilson faintly notices that House's arms is traveling across his shoulder and pulling him closer. House's forehead comes to rest lightly on his shoulder.

"_She _was definitely cheating," Wilson says.

"Yeah."

"But is one an active participant in the cheating if one is staging oneself for discovery?"

House frowns into Wilson's shoulder, "you're trying to find loopholes for me. There aren't any."

Wilson notices that breathing has become very difficult. "I'm just observing that what you did was somewhat selfless."

"Well, we're sitting here now so it definitely wasn't selfless," House explains, pulling him closer still. House's face is practically buried in his neck. "Why are you still here?"

"This is the worst you've ever hurt me," Wilson says quietly, "worse than…" He can't say Amber's name.

"I know," House says. His arms tighten their hold on Wilson, as if begging for forgiveness.

"I don't think I can forgive you. I don't think I can see you after tonight."

"I know."

Wilson is breathless, he slings one arms around House's shoulder in return. They are hugging. _It's not exactly a hug_, Wilson notes, _it's more of a hug-like embrace._

"Why are you here?" House asks for the thousandth time.

"Because I love you too."

He feels House grin into his neck.

"Is that a 'you're fun to hang out with' I love you," House teases, "or an 'I don't have any other friends' I love you?"

"It's more of an undying sort of I love you," Wilson whispers, realizing his lips are only inches away from House's ear. House is holding him so tightly now that it hurts. "It's more of an 'I hate you and I still love you'."

"You should leave," House says, "go far away."

"Yes."

"Never look back."

"Yes."

"Move to LA or Seattle or New York."

"I prefer Toronto."

"Okay. Toronto then," House concedes as one hand moves into Wilson's hair.

"I suppose you want me to get married and have kids?" Wilson leans into the touch. House's fingers are pulling on his hair and he is overcome by the sudden urge to tilt his head up (because that's how close they are, he only has to tilt his head up) so that his lips are covering House's. He wants to kiss House and he wonders if House knows this.

"Yeah and have a house with a white picket fence," House advises, "lots of kids running around and a dog."

"It sounds lovely."

"And boring," House snorts onto the skin of Wilson's neck. They are entangled in the blankets. It's getting very warm.

"Well, too bad I have a cripple latching onto me, restricting movement."

At this House does actually slacken his hold a little, "go."

He is splayed on House but he props himself up on one arm and looks at House's face. His eyes are barely blue, they are dark and pleading. _Pleading for what? For me to stay or leave?_

Wilson takes his thumb and wipes the pink lipstick from the corner of House's lips and his cheek. _I am wiping my ex-girlfriend's lipstick from my best friend's mouth_. _I am so fucked._ He lowers his head onto House's chest again.

"I loved her," he is _almost _crying again.

"I know."

Silence. A finger finds its way to Wilson's spine. He shudders at the touch.

"She didn't deserve you," House whispers, "neither do I but at least I know it."

"Shut up," Wilson snarls, "you're not allowed to…you're not allowed to decide…I hate you."

They don't speak. They don't move.

"Was this a test?" Wilson asks. "Was this another one of your sick tests? Were you just seeing exactly how far you could push me without breaking this? Were you expecting that you could do that and that I would still stay?"

"No," House whispers, "I didn't."

More silence.

"I don't want to move to Toronto. _You _move to Toronto."

"Okay," House says.

"Yeah," Wilson realizes, "you sleep with my girlfriend and I have to move? You move."

"I said okay."

"And don't move to a good vacation spot like Hawaii. I want to go there. Go to a remote town in Alaska."

"Okay. Which one?"

"Not Anchorage, it hosts medical conferences."

"Where then?" House asks.

"Somewhere in Interior Alaska. Fairbanks is good or you can go to one of those small towns like Nenana and become the town doctor."

"I've always wanted that." He has that far-off look on his face that indicates he is planning something mischievous.

Wilson eyes him suspiciously. "Are we having a serious conversation?"

"You sound pretty serious."

"I'm not," Wilson sighs, "I don't want you to move to Fairbanks."

"You don't?" House is surprised. There is a note of hope in his voice, as if he's expecting Wilson to proclaim his forgiveness and ask him to stay.

"Your leg would act up from the extreme cold."

"I forgot about that."

"I want you to move to Santa Fe."

"Sure," House mumbles, "Santa Fe is nice."

Wilson is falling asleep. In the arms of his best friend who was cheating with his girl friend about two hours ago. _I am so screwed._

"Just not Hawaii. I really want to go there," Wilson mumbles as he falls asleep.

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><p>When Wilson wakes up the next morning the air is stale and everything is still. He's cold because he's lying on top of a heap of blankets and not under them. <em>Stupid House, <em>he thinks, _always hogging the blankets. _It takes him a moment to realize that House isn't underneath him or next to him. _Selfish bastard always preferred the bed._

He cracks his eyes open and dares look over at _the chair._ There are no signs of evil upon it, it's just a chair. Everything comes back to him and his chest hurts. So does the rest of his body. From the corner of his eye, he spots something odd. The royal blue cardiology volume that always rests right on top of House's bookshelf is missing. He chides himself for knowing the exact details of House's apartment but he knows that the book has been there for the past four years.

He sits up. It's like he's in on one of those "spot the difference" pictures. The casual observer would notice nothing amiss in House's apartment but Wilson spots several missing objects. All the best books, the case on top of the coffee table, the statue House had bought from Egypt and…the guitar. Why is the guitar missing? Wilson makes his way to the bedroom. The bed hasn't been slept in. The closet is open and half-empty.

"How did I sleep through that?" he whispers to himself. He checks under the bed, where House keeps his suitcase. It's gone. He checks the bedside table. So is his passport.

"Great," he grunts. He has to make sure. He scours the apartment for a goodbye letter but there isn't one. He calls House's travel agent.

"Yeah he called me last night at the worst possible hour," she sighs, "I told him I was home and not working but he offered to pay double."

"Did you book him?"

"Yeah, of course I did. I have a talent for booking things last minute," she says proudly, "a pre-furnished apartment, a car and a one-way plane ticket. I did it all in thirty minutes."

"Let me guess," Wilson says as he sweeps a hand on the sleek wood of House's piano tenderly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "Santa Fe?"

"What?"

"He's going to Santa Fe." It's not a question.

"Oh gosh no," she laughs, "He went to Honolulu."

He is completely silent.

"In Hawaii," she explains, interpreting his silence as confusion, "it's on the island of Oahu."

More silence from him.

"You should really look at a map," she grunts.

"Yeah, no," he mumbles, shocked, "I know where Hawaii is. Thank you."

He hangs up and lands half on top of the piano, laughing. He laughs until his stomach hurts, until there are small tears at the corners of his eyes. This is House's greatest prank and Wilson revels in what must be one of their greatest inside jokes. _Not everyone would move to Hawaii to make me laugh_, he grins to himself as he goes to the bathroom to rinse the sour taste of vomit and sleep from his mouth.

Then he goes to the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

_Pancakes_, he decides, _maple walnut to make House jealous. _He contemplates taking pictures of the pancakes and emailing them to House.

As he munches on the pancakes, his heart is still causing him a considerable amount of pain. He thinks of Sam. He hopes she will take her things from his apartment before he goes back. He washes a bite down with orange juice. He thinks about House and wonders if he can ever truly forgive him or whether he already has. He decides he _can't _have already forgiven him, it's too soon. He also realizes he isn't angry, just very sad. He should feel more alone because he's completely… alone but somehow the comedy of House moving to the one place he'd asked him not to go makes them feel more linked than ever. He doesn't feel as lonely as he should.

He realizes, linked as they might be, that he will probably never see House again. Or maybe he will, but it will be a casual run-in at the grocery store or a medical conference and neither of them will know what to say or what to do and it will never feel the same again. He suddenly wishes that he had said goodbye to House, that he had said goodbye to House last night, in that precise moment when he was wiping the lipstick from his lower lip.

He takes another sip of juice and watches the golden sunbeams spread across House's kitchen tiles. Then he realizes that House _did _leave him a goodbye note after all, in the form of his travel plans. It reads "fuck you" in the most affectionate way possible and he supposes he will just have to be happy with that.

* * *

><p><strong><em>There is an epilogue which I will post if you feel it necessary to know what happens after this.<em> Again, I'm aware of the darkness and the slight OOC. Forgive me! Thank you, thank you if you've gotten this far.**


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